


Suptober Day 15: Third Eye

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Crack Treated Seriously, Crystals, Dean Winchester in Denial, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Psychics, Sex Toys, a day in the life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: “Readings?” Dean asks, blankly.The tall Indian guy blinks serenely at him, folding his hands. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? For a desire reading?”That's it, Dean's breaking all of Sam's computer-searching Internet-enabled fingers.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 26
Kudos: 131





	Suptober Day 15: Third Eye

**Author's Note:**

> So I had zero (0) ideas for what I wanted to write for today. But I really, really didn't want to give up today. So... here we are. I'm currently too tired to do any more work on this, so I THINK it's done, but... well.

For all the time Dean’s spent in strip clubs in his life, the truth is, he really spends _no time at all_ in sex shops. Not, like, novelty places that sell penis pasta. The real deal. Well, other than the ones with the peep shows and the back rooms of videos that he’d sneak into when he was young and stupid and didn’t have the height yet to make like what was on his fake ID was a believable age.

It’s really a completely different thing. He goes to clubs to see the _girls_ , and that’s not exactly what they’re selling in these places.

The fact is, even if Dean _wanted_ anything from one—and what the hell, he doesn’t, why would he? He can get porn lots of other places now, and it’s not like he needs any _other_ stuff that they sell in those places—he’s been living practically in the back of Sammy’s t-shirt for years, and their stuff has gotten mixed up often enough that there was a point they’d buy boxers that were a size in between theirs. Dean doesn’t care about Sam knowing about his porn, but there’s no way in _hell_ he’d let him see… anything else.

Even if he wanted… anything else.

Which he doesn’t.

Dean gets tied up enough with rope that he doesn’t have any interest in doing that kind of shit for fun. And what would he do with any of the…

Nope, not thinking of that either.

“I’m gonna break Sammy’s other leg,” he mutters, looking up at the sky before he glances at the door. He can feel his lips flattening already. He didn’t even want to _park_ Baby anywhere nearby. “Why’re we here again?”

But he _was_ surprised to find that this particular sex store is located right in the middle of the main little drag of college town Durango, Colorado. The town’s too small to _have_ a bad part of town—it’s bigger than Lebanon, but not by that much—but he really didn’t expect to find it in a place this… traveled? Public? And even with Cas manning the GPS, they drove past it three times before they realized that it was here.

(It went something like this:

“Dean, the electronic satellite is very insistent.”

“Check again, I bet the mountains are in the way, and it’s rerouting or there’s a sunspot or something.”

“I can feel sunspots, I assure you there are not.”)

Sometimes, it really just doesn’t pay to argue with a goddamned angel.

“Is that a rhetorical question, Dean?” Castiel asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s being sarcastic, for once, but maybe that’s because they stopped for lemon meringue pie on the drive over from Lebanon. Cas doesn’t like the filling, and he won’t touch the crust, but he seems to enjoy little spoonfuls of the meringue topping.

“Yeah…” Dean sighs, and looks up at the sign. He curls his lip at it. “Except no. But yeah.”

Cas cocks his head. “Which?”

Dean just shakes his head and looks up at the top of the doorway again. “ _Positive Vibes”_ is written on a neat little hanging doorway in white, surprisingly fancy lettering on a background of dark lavender. There’s a sign on the door that’s in the shape of what is definitely a round, juicy peach, labeled with “Come On In!”

There’s a coating of white frosting on the peach.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Okay. A hunter and an angel walk into a sex shop that claims to be run by a psychic…

Because Dean’s life couldn’t get any weirder.

The thought of what Pamela would think still gives him a hard twinge, though—she’d _love_ this, wouldn’t she? Goddamn—so Dean grits his teeth and pushes through the door. A soft ‘ _whisht’_ sound makes him jump, and his hand jams so hard against his Colt that he almost ends up drawing it anyway just to complete the motion, but then the smell of _lavender_ hits his nose, sort of perfumey, and… okay.

Cas doesn’t jump when he follows him in. (Of course he doesn’t.) He does sniff the air, though. “Oh,” he notes. “Aromatherapy. And it’s real oils. That’s nice.”

This time, Dean doesn’t think he’s being sassy.

Okay, Dean may not be frequent clientele of ‘adult stores,’ but he’s pretty sure they _don’t_ look like this, and he actually backs up and out of the door to check the sign before he comes back in. (This time, the lavender spritz makes him want to shoot something for entirely different reasons.) There’s nothing skeevy about it, nothing _scattered_. It’s not shelves crammed with weird dildos or mannequins dressed up in leather. There’s no fluorescent pink anywhere to be seen.

The lighting is soft and bright, a little warm—for all the world like sunlight—and the space isn’t big, but it’s wide open. There’s absolutely nowhere for someone to hide and pretend they aren’t browsing the porn titles or wondering why someone wants something with _spikes_ or who the hell thinks an anal plug that big is a good idea.

Sure, it looks like a shop: there are shelves, little racks, and tables, and they have stuff on them, but everything’s labeled with little cards, and spaced out. It’s just… it’s a classy setup. Things aren’t being sold, they’re being _exhibited,_ like Dean’s seen fancy designer bags put out in a shop window, or maybe shoes. In one corner, a rack of books is only labeled with ‘Treats for the Mind,’ and opposite it, there are glass _display cases_.

Of course, the sign over _those_ says ‘Treats for the Body.’

But all the tables right in the entryway? Just essential oil things, little crystals on chains, a metal bowl that looks like a Tibetan prayer bowl. There’s a propped-up book on mindfulness, a big wicker basket with cork yoga mats rolled up and poking out of it like the world’s weirdest parchment.

Dean suppresses the urge to back out and check the sign for a third time. If Sam’s playing some kind of practical joke on them and made them drive all the way here to do it, Dean doesn’t care that he’s on crutches and in a cast right now, he’s going to itching powder his bedsheets.

At least it’s not skeevy or gross, not at all, but maybe Sam was wrong about the sex shop part? Or just yanking on Dean’s chain. To be honest, this really _does_ look more like every fancy high-end woo-woo witchery shop that Dean’s seen before. They don’t go into them that often (fancy and high-end really aren’t their style) but sometimes someone just needs a perfectly icosahedral natural fluorite or whatever, and those things cost when they can’t find them in the MoL back rooms.

Cas, though, has wandered off to the side and picked a big, lumpy green stone… cylinder off a table. He’s studying it with his brows wrinkled together.

Shit. Wait.

No, that cylinder looks like it has big, shiny green stone _balls_. _Holy fuck_. Dean takes a closer look at the other things on that table.

Nope. Nope, it’s a fucking woo-woo sex shop. Dean brought an angel into a tantric sex shop, and Castiel is touching something.

“Put that _down_ ,” Dean hisses. “You don’t know where it’s been.” Then he regrets it as soon as he says it, because he didn’t want to think about that.

Cas looks at the little sign on the table, and he doesn’t put down the rippled, vivid stone dong he’s holding in both hands. “I do. It says that it comes from Mexico.”

Okay, that really wasn’t what Dean meant. At all. He opens his mouth to explain, then realizes that this is, of all the truly awkward conversations he’s ever had with Cas, a conversation that he _really_ doesn’t want to have. And he once brought Cas to a brothel, gave him cash, bought him a night out, and then had to explain to him why telling a girl for hire about her daddy issues is a bad idea.

(Even if, well… Dean sort of loves the memories of that night.)

Dean wipes a hand over his face. He’s so fucked-up. They’re all so fucked-up. “Just… just put down the rock dildo, Cas,” he sighs.

Yeah, those were words that Dean Winchester was pretty sure he’d never say, and he’s lived a _weird_ fucking life.

“Oh.” Cas looks down and runs one hand, cupped, over the… _shaft,_ Jesus Christ, Dean’s never going to be able to unsee that. “Are you referring to it being used as a _sex object_?”

Dean gapes. Cas saying ‘sex object’ just… that sounds wrong. Somehow. He doesn’t know how.

Castiel rolls his eyes like he thinks Dean _shouldn’t_ be weirded out about him fondling a rippled green stone dong. “I strongly doubt that’s what this is,” he says, in his full-on gravel educational tone, like he’s telling Dean about goats and coffee, or how the Sphinx was painted ‘the most beautiful red, you had to have seen it.’ And not… yeah. “This is malachite. Most human secretions are slightly acidic, Dean. Any exposure to them would likely partially erode the stone and it would not be so lustrous if it had been inserted—”

“Hello!” a deep voice speaks up from the back of the shop, and a small door beside the bookshelf swings open. A guy comes hurrying out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the diffuser, I was doing inventory in the back.”

“Uh, hi, yeah,” Dean blurts, for lack of anything else to say. Dean normally sort of likes to hear Cas rattle on about things—he doesn’t do it nearly that often for someone millennia old, and Cas gets sort of excited when he does start telling stories about ancient history. But right now, Dean’s never been so happy to have one of Cas’s little nerd-out moments interrupted in his life.

Then Dean frowns a little again, because, well, the man hurrying towards them _matches_ the space they’re in. Dean’s not sure what he expected, but he looks… well, _professional._ He’s very tall and kind of skinny, but clean-cut, clean-shaven. A few years older than Dean. Maybe Indian or something, but he’s wearing a button-down and slacks and wingtips. And a _tie_. There’s gel in his hair.

Dean, in his flannel and a Henley and jeans, feels… weirdly underdressed next to the two of them.

“Welcome to Positive Vibes,” the guy says, and his voice is deep and soothing and, well… American, so he’s not trying to sell some fake foreign feels. “I’m Vibin, I’m the owner here.” Then he smiles—just with his eyes, like Cas does when he’s laughing at them. “I assure you that it hasn’t been used, Dean Winchester. It’s only a display object, for one thing. It concentrates male tantric energy, but I’m very specific that it shouldn’t be used for insertion.”

Dean and Cas exchange a glance, and Cas carefully puts down the stone dildo decorative display object… thing with a quiet thud.

Okay, _so…_ maybe Sam was right about the psychic thing.

Then, after a long moment of silence, the owner’s smile matches the amusement in his eyes, a white clean flash, and he laughs. “Okay, okay,” he admits, dusting off his hands on his slacks, and then clapping them together briskly. “I’m not that good. I heard you talking. And I didn’t know your name because of my third eye, either. Your brother—Sam, right?—called and bought readings for you two.”

“Readings?” Dean asks, blankly.

Vibin blinks serenely at him. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? For a desire reading?” he gestures behind him. “ _We Offer Hand-reading, not Handjobs!_ ” is written in pretty pink script on the wall behind the—iPad—cash register with a little Square swipe chip sticking out the top of it.

“A… _desire reading?!_ ” That’s it, Dean’s not just breaking Sam’s other, unbroken leg—the reason why Dean’s here with _Cas,_ rather than with Sam—he’s breaking all the fingers Sam’s been apparently using on the computer.

“My specialty. You’re not the first person who’s been sent here on a whim or a joke by a sibling, though.” Vibin folds his hands in front of him. His smile is gentle and serene and couldn’t possibly have been less like Pamela or Missouri. The guy practically _radiates_ lavender. “How can I put you at ease? Would you like some vanilla at your pulse points? I’ll refund the money to your brother, of course, if you’re not comfortable doing a reading.”

To be fair—not that Dean’s much inclined to be fair, right now—they _are_ here because it’d be useful to have a psychic that they can call on for certain kinds of cases. Sam’s been spending way too much time on the Internet since he’s been off his feet, which was how he came across an article in American Psychic and Medium on this guy.

And, to be even more fair, it’s not like Dean can _ask_ him if he’s a real psychic—he’d just say yes.

“I’m fine,” Dean grunts, and edges a little closer to the table with the yoga mats and essential oils—he’s fine with those—and away from the table that Cas is studying, which really does look like it’s covered with dicks made of all shapes and stones. “So you’re… uh… you’re psychic, huh?”

Didn’t he _just_ tell himself he wasn’t gonna ask? But half his attention is on Cas again, because Cas has wandered away from the crystal penises and is poking things at the table next to it. At least those just look like stones—balls and eggs and stuff, like those rocks that people collect when they believe crystals have power outside of being used as spell components.

“In a way,” Vibin agrees. He adjusts something in a little basket on the wall, straightening it so it pokes upwards and out. Dean almost spits when he realizes that that is _definitely_ a very fancy vibrator—why does it have two parts to it…? “I’m a third-generation Tantrism yogic practitioner. But my ajna and svadhisthana are open, and have always been very closely connected. Hence…” and he gestures around him. “My place.”

Who even uses words like ‘hence’ that aren’t Crowley? That alone isn’t inclined to make Dean like him any better.

“What’s that mean?” Dean asks, dubiously.

Cas has picked up something that looks like a big pink stone egg, holding it cupped thoughtfully in his palm and turning it back and forth. What’s it with him and the rocks today? But he looks up and glances over.

“His head chakra and sacral chakra are linked,” Cas recites, and then, with one hand, touches his own forehead, and low on his belly, just at his belt. He considers that, and nods to himself. “Oh, I see. You’re clairvoyant, but primarily for things seen through a lens of sexuality.”

“Ah,” Vibin says, appreciatively. He looks surprised. Which he should, _Dean’s_ surprised. “An educated man. Are you a practitioner?”

“No,” Cas answers. “I’ve just been around a long time.”

Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth. “Cas, buddy,” Dean mutters, “Seriously, though, how do you know _that_ and you don’t know what the Death Star is?”

“Just because I don’t understand your extended metaphors about life-or-death situations doesn’t mean I don’t _know_ what the Death Star is, Dean,” Castiel answers, grouchily, and he rolls the egg in his palm. Then he studies the little sign that was by the egg’s wooden stand. “I do not, however, know what a yoni egg is. What sort of animal is a yoni? The only thing I know by that name is…”

Cas pauses, and looks at Vibin, his eyebrows tipping delicately together.

“Yes,” Vibin answers, calmly. “It’s rose quartz, so particularly good for loving energy and personal fulfillment. Also, it’s nonporous.”

“Oh,” answers Cas, blinking.

Dean has no fucking idea what they’re talking about, but Cas definitely puts the thing down on its stand more carefully than he picked it up, before he wanders off deeper into the shop. Dean bites down the urge to tell him not to _touch_ anything else.

“Feel free to turn on any of the vibrators in baskets, they’re just testers,” Vibin calls after him. “I clean them with wipes after each customer, and they should all be charged. If you want to touch something in a display case, just let me know.”

Fuck. Dean should have just told him not to touch anything

“Now. Your reading?” Vibin says, holding out his hands.

Dean doesn’t give them. “What’s it going to tell you?” he asks, suspiciously, shifting on his feet. “Am I going to, I dunno, think of a Casa Erotica from one to ten? The pretty girl I should’ve banged in high school? My deepest desires?”

Vibin laughs, gently. “Oh, saints, no. Just keep your mind clear. Try to think of everyday things. Or nothing.”

Yeah, no. _No-one_ should be poking around in his brain unwarned—Dean, of all people knows this. “And you’re looking for…?”

Vibin gestures at the walls. “I don’t sell bondage gear or shock toys. That’s the shop in the strip mall outside town.” This time, he grins, a quick flash. “I look for _desires._ And you’d be surprised how little it takes to satisfy. Little things, nice things. Something that will give you pleasure and contentment.” He shrugs. “And besides, the way this works is that I will pick out something afterwards that I think you'll like. You don't have to buy it, but if you do buy something, I discount the cost of the reading from it.”

So Vibin’s probably not gonna be able to help them at all in the things that they actually _need_ a psychic for, is what he’s saying, even if he _is_ the real deal. Which Dean doubts. But Dean has to admit that now he’s, well… he’s kind of curious.

But Dean doesn’t feel anything when he puts a hand down, carefully, on Vibin’s outstretched ones. He doesn’t even feel anything when the guy turns his palm over and lays his fingertips on Dean’s wrist, just over his pulse, weirdly intimate. Dean’s not thinking of much at all, and he lets his gaze wander.

It _is_ a nice, open, soft-colored space, if Dean doesn’t look too closely at what’s in the baskets. Cas looks like he’s enjoying himself—but that’s par for the course, he just never knows what he’s gonna get when he takes Cas someplace. Cas has pulled down a book—Dean can’t see the cover, but it’s a big one—and is turning pages on it very deliberately, like he’s browsing the Bible, it resting in the crook of his trenchcoated elbow like he’s carrying a baby.

When Cas has his attention on something, he concentrates like he’s trying to memorize the secrets of the world—the world he watched being _built_ , what the fuck—and it’s the same whether he’s reading ancient Enochian in the bunker or browsing the manual of tantric sex or something in a woo-woo psychic sex shop in the middle of Colorado.

After fondling a giant malachite not-a-dildo and a rose quartz egg.

Dean doesn’t know how the hell he got to this place in his life, but, bizarrely? At this moment, in this safe, ridiculous place, he’s really glad Cas is right here in the weirdness with him. Even if Dean _does_ think a little too often about wrapping his hand around that tie and seeing if that concentration extends to—

“ _Hmm_ ,” Vibin says, and Dean, like a fucking moron, jumps.

“What?” he barks, and yanks his hand free.

“Oh,” Vibin says, thoughtfully, and considers, tapping a finger on his lip. Dean bites down on a retort—he’s sure it would have been snappy, even if he can’t think of one right now. Then the shop's owner starts walking, but no, Dean is _not_ following him any deeper into there.

All of the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck go on red alert when he realizes that Vibin is walking straight towards a certain Angel of the Lord, who’s put down the book and is bent over with his trench coat draped forward around him, peeking into one of the glass display cabinets with his eyebrows curved with interest.

Because just because _Dean’s_ had a teensy, tiny little thought crop up now and again about Cas—that’s just proximity, especially after Purgatory—that doesn’t mean it’s anything. It’s _not_ anything, _everyone_ has that kind of thought, it doesn’t mean—and Cas is an angel anyway, so it doesn’t—

But Vibin rolls his dark eyes impatiently and plucks a _bottle_ off the shelf, walking it back towards Dean and offering it towards him.

Dean doesn’t take it, but he does look down suspiciously. And when he does, he frowns.

“Is that _massage oil_?” he blurts. Okay, that’s nowhere near as, well, _interesting_ as Dean thought the selection might be.

(For some reason, he’s almost a little disappointed.)

“Yes, my own blend,” Vibin tells him, with a nod, and turns the bottle over to show him the label—simple, clean, a blue square on a clear bottle, an ingredient list in white font. Not weird or porny at all. Kind of… _boring,_ actually. “Rosemary, sweet almond oil, macadamia oil, just a touch of arnica.” He rolls his eyes, just a little, when Dean doesn’t reach for it. “Arnica is a plant in the sunflower family—it’s a botanical anti-inflammatory.”

Hey, Dean has the right to be suspicious, the last time he heard of arnica it was being used as witch spell components, along with owl skulls and yak blood.

“It would be _much_ nicer to use with your intended partner,” Vibin says, regretfully, tilting it back towards himself and studying the label, “but until you clear the blockage in your visuddha, well, it’ll help with your bad knee. Or if you put it on the soles on your feet at the end of the day.”

That… huh. That actually doesn’t sound half bad. “Visuddha?” Dean asks.

Wait, _intended partner?_ What bullshit is that? Now he knows the guy’s a fake. What, someone only comes into a sex shop if they’re _with_ someone?

“Throat chakra,” Cas answers, absently, from across the shop. Something in his fingers lights up and buzzes delicately. Dean doesn’t think it’s his cellphone. Cas smiles at it with a small, pleased, “Oh!” but he stops the buzzing and puts something small and bean-shaped and purple back into its basket.

“ _Communication_ ,” Vibin whispers, and pushes the bottle insistently into Dean’s hand. “Here. My gift to you, Dean Winchester. It’s the least I can do, for everything you do to keep us safe.” And while Dean’s staring, Vibin holds out a hand to Cas. “All right, now you.”

Huh. What? Okay.

Cas starts strolling back, but he pauses before he reaches them. His expression isn’t so much wary as it is resigned. “That’s really not necessary,” he murmurs. “I can see the energy around you, I know that your abilities are real.”

Dean stares, and fights the urge to scrub his hands against the thighs of his jeans, ‘cause psychics still creep him out and probably always will. Cas couldn’t have said that sooner, though? Okay, they’re gonna have words again about what Cas thinks is important to share and what isn’t. This, for example, should’ve come _before_ Cas started rattling off shit about things that dissolve rocks, and chakras…

Oh. Wait. Cas _did_ say something about him being clairvoyant.

Cas developing a sense of sarcasm is really unhelpful in times where he’s actually _serious_.

“I insist,” Vibin says, seriously. “I’m a businessman, and Sam paid for both of you.”

Cas glances at Dean. Dean looks at the massage oil in his hand—for free, at that—and shrugs. He probably _is_ the real deal, but he seems kind of… harmless?

Cas, to his credit, at least doesn’t tell Vibin that all the money is weird electronic fakery that Charlie cooked up. He chews his lower lip for just long enough that Dean can only catch the faintest flash of teeth before he shrugs to himself and holds out his hand. “I’m sorry, it will probably be just colors,” he notes, sounding just a little apologetic about it.

Dean doesn’t know why he finds that sort of… endearing, almost. So what if Cas thinks in colors? He doesn’t have to apologize for that. Guy’s an angel. He can think in quantum physics and starlight, if he wants.

Vibin laughs. “Others aren’t like me,” he says, smugly. “We’ll see.”

He takes Cas’s hand in both of his and turns it over, the way he did Dean’s. Then he slides his fingertips underneath Cas’s cuffs, and presses his fingers—presumably—to Cas’s pulse.

The guy just has time to frown, vaguely, before his eyes roll back in his head and his knees go out from under him.

Dean knows what it looks like when people are faking passing out. Unless Vibin here was willing to hit the countertop face-first, there’s no way that he went that limp intentionally—strings cut and going down.

Cas is fast—he reaches out and grabs him by the forearm, and Dean just barely gets him by the back with an ‘oof’ before he brains himself. They lower him together.

“Uh, did you brain fry another psychic?” Dean asks, suspiciously. But no-one’s eyes are melting, and Vibin isn’t _dead_ —his pulse is strong, and his eyes are moving behind his eyelids like freaky REM.

Cas looks just as confused, though. “No, that didn’t—that’s never happened.” He gently reaches out and presses two fingers to Vibin’s forehead, underneath the neat dark hair.

But when Vibin wakes up and sits up, folding his legs heavily underneath him, he doesn’t look freaked out that he got angel-brained. He goes to his knees and sits back on his heels, looking at where Cas is crouched by him, looking worried.

The guy looks _awed_.

“That’s really beautiful,” he says. “ _Wow_.” He reaches out and squeezes Cas’s shoulder—Vibin’s taller than Dean, so even with Cas crouching there’s something weirdly beneficent about it. Especially considering that Cas, little though he is, is a fucking _heavenly seraph_. “Don’t lose hope. I wish you luck—truly.”

There’s something gentle and a little hopeful about it.

“Oh. You, too,” Vibin tells Dean, like an afterthought, turning and patting his shoulder in a gesture is probably supposed to be… comforting? (It isn’t.)

“Huh?” Dean asks.

“Thank you,” Cas answers, solemnly, pushing to his feet, and holds out a hand to help each of them up. His hand just feels like a hand to Dean—strong and warm, callused. Nothing unearthly about it, or anything that would make a psychic look at him with wonder like that. Just… Cas.

Before they leave, Vibin presents Cas with a book—it’s on crystals and celestial energy—and a small bottle of Sliquid H20 personal lubricant.

What the _fuck._

“You deserve this. You’ve been so patient,” he tells Cas, still so _kindly_ , before turning to Dean. “If you need help with one of your cases… well, I don’t know how much help I can be,” he offers. “I’m a little limited. But I can try.”

Cases. Shit. He's definitely the real deal.

“Thanks,” Dean says, awkwardly, and hightails it the fuck out of there.

(He still jumps when the lavender diffuser spritzes him on the way out the door.)

Okay, so now Dean’s curious, because even though Dean knows what nightmares have permanent residence in his noggin, it didn’t make the guy _pass out._ But Dean isn’t going to ask. _Nope_. Whatever was in Cas's head that requires _personal lubricant_ is just… nope. He doesn’t need to know.

Even though he really, really wants to.

Fuck, he’s going to ask.

About two hours into the drive, Cas is about halfway through his new book when Dean speaks up. “What exactly did he mean by, uh…” Dean lifts one hand off Baby’s wheel and sort of twirls it before he realizes he really doesn’t know what he wants to say there. He grips the wheel again. “You know. That?”

“Who knows?” Cas shrugs. “Psychics are strange,” he says, looking down his nose at Dean very meaningfully. Then he looks at his book. “And this crystal business is complete fiction, who actually believes in this nonsense?”

Dean is chuckling about that—both of them are—until they're halfway back to Kansas.

*_*_*_*

Vibin doesn’t look surprised when Dean’s back six months later looking for help on a case.

(And bigger bottles of lube and massage oil.)

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> 50K words in and only halfway, oh my God.
> 
> The idea of a psychic sex shop came from [Ami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal), though I took it in a completely different direction...
> 
> Do not put malachite into your bits. The Internet has made its opinion clear on that. Also, supposedly jade yoni eggs ARE porous (Do Not Recommend) but rose quartz eggs aren't.
> 
> And for all of you lovely, lovely people who have been sending me comments... I really do treasure every one, and I apologize that I haven't been getting back replies to them promptly. Life + daily story has been getting a teensy bit overwhelming, but I promise I will get to them, and I truly love you guys for taking the time to write them!


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